When I was in junior high school, my family was extremely poor. I wore a pair of yellow sneakers for an entire year, and my clothes were patched so many times that I looked disheveled and dull. This situation made me deeply insecure, and my academic performance plummeted accordingly. I was often mocked and looked down upon by my classmates. I used to resent those who ridiculed me and even once considered dropping out of school.
It was the season for planting rice seedlings. When I arrived home with my school bag at noon, my father glanced at it and understood everything. I stood by, waiting for his scolding or even physical punishment. However, my father said nothing; he simply sat on the stone step, smoking silently. The smoke rose and drifted over his forehead, seemingly reflecting his anger and regret. After finishing the pipe, he tapped it on the stone step and said, "Take your things inside, and come to the fields with me this afternoon!"
Our paddy field was reclaimed wasteland on a river islet. The inside of the levee was the seedling bed, while the outside was the islet. My father had already leveled and softened the seedling bed; stepping on it felt soft and comfortable. My father and I began planting the rice. The field was not large, and we finished before dark. My father washed his feet and sat at the head of the field, smoking. As the sun set, wildflowers of unknown varieties bloomed profusely on the islet, with many butterflies and dragonflies flitting about.
Caught up by the beauty of the scene, I momentarily forgot my inner turmoil and physical exhaustion. I jumped onto the islet to catch butterflies. The butterflies seemed to be deliberately teasing me; when I tried to catch them, they flew away lightly; but when I stopped, they would land on the flowers right in front of me. I ran here and there, but failed to catch a single one. Frustrated, I returned to my father's side, panting heavily.
My father, smoking, asked, "Are you done catching them?" I replied, "I'm done. Those butterflies are too annoying!" My father said, "The butterflies are not at fault; it is your ability that is lacking." Unconvinced, I stood up and shouted, "How is my ability lacking?" My father exhaled a puff of smoke, gazed into the distance, and said quietly but firmly, "The butterflies like flowers. If you want the butterflies to like you, you must first turn yourself into a flower!" I was stunned: my plain and honest father had actually spoken such a philosophical truth.
